Page 38 of Blush Crush

Instead I just feel like myself.

“You look pretty today,” Layla says before crunching down on a chip, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies me. “And don’t even try to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I know I’ve been busy as hell lately, but don’t think I haven’t noticed this little style switch-up you’ve got going on.” She gestures down the length of me.

She really has been busy. I honestly don’t know how she functions going to school full-time on top of working full-time. I feel exhausted enough dragging myself out of bed at two in the morning most days, but at least that means I’m usually asleepfairly early. Layla, on the other hand, seems to survive on hardly any sleep and way too much caffeine.

So I’m not surprised this is the first time she’s said anything about my new and improved wardrobe. I wouldn’t even blame her if she hadn’t noticed at all.

“Just a couple of new pieces.” I shrug, brushing it off. “Still me.”

She gives me a pointed look. “Of course you’re still you. You’re just finally treating yourself like the baddie you are.” She pops another chip into her mouth. “I love it. Fully support it. And I promise to never bring it up again because I know how much you hate it when I point stuff out.”

A laugh slips out of me.

Layla goes quiet for a second, her gaze lingering on me a little too long.

“I just hope…never mind.”

“You just hope what?” I ask, a strange heat settling uncomfortably in my chest.

She sighs, like she’s debating whether to say it. “I just hope you’re doing it for you,” she finally says. “And not for some guy. Because you never need to change yourself for a guy. Ever. New clothes or old clothes—you’re already perfect the way you are.”

“It’s not for a guy,” I reassure her. “There is no guy.”

Her brows lift. “Not even the poetry professor?”

I can’t help but laugh. I ended up telling Layla a little bit more about Wes when we hung out last, but I didn’t really think she was listening.

“That’s going nowhere. Which is probably for the best.”

“Okay then,” she says slowly. I can tell she wants to talk more about it, but clearly I don’t.

Before she can push any further, a voice crackles over the loudspeaker mounted near the clubhouse patio announcing the shotgun start will begin in five minutes.

Across the green, a couple of volunteers set up a folding table beside the tee box, handing out scorecards and pencils. A small sign reads HOLE 7. According to the tournament brochure and the map printed on the back, this is where Ethan and Cole are starting.

The first thing I notice when their group assembles at the tee box is that Cole looks annoyingly good in a quarter zip.

The second thing I notice is that he hasn’t looked our way once.

Ethan spots us and waves. Cole doesn’t look over.

I tell myself I don’t care. I’ve spent the better part of two months telling myself I don’t care, so I’m fairly practiced at it by now. I take a long sip of water and keep my eyes on the course.

Beside me, Layla has already abandoned the nachos and is staring off, her arms crossed with impatience.

Ethan lines up his shot and swings. The ball slices hard to the left.

“Nailed that one,” Layla says under her breath.

I laugh louder than intended, which is when Cole finally looks over.

Our eyes meet for exactly one second before I look away first.

My stomach drops. Waves of awkwardness washing over me. One brief look and I can hardly stand the discomfort.

The round moves slowly the way golf always does, and Layla and I meander along the edge of the course with a loose group of family and spectators. I keep a comfortable distance, staying close enough to watch but far enough that running into Cole requires actual effort.

At one point, Layla drifts a few steps ahead, stopping to chat with one of the firefighters playing in the tournament.